


When you no longer love me

by aprilwinks (sleepysauce)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alfred still loves Arthur, Angst, Arthur couldn't take it oof, Break Up, Dark, Dark America (Hetalia), M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Pain, Possessive America (Hetalia), Unhealthy Relationships, despite it all, robinrocks inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepysauce/pseuds/aprilwinks
Summary: "Promise yourself to me, and I to you."England stared at him dully. He never did say I love you back to him. Never. But, this would be enough, it would be more than enough, emotions are too humane. We are nations, we have something stronger than emotions. We have immortality."I promise."
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	When you no longer love me

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my favorite usuk writer: robinrocks ! Her works are amazing check her writing out.

Alfred sighed into his hands, a rusty old toy soldier dropped from his hands. He couldn't do this, "How could have this happened?"

Who could have guessed that England would leave him?

He could only recall those loving warm eyes vanish and morph into venomous slits. Arthur- no England never looked at him that way before. America always used to complain about England getting in his business but now he doesn't even look at him anymore. It's as if they were just allies -nothing less and nothing more.

_ There wasn't a Special Relationship anymore. _

Alfred feels disgusted. A violent surge of nausea overtakes him and he swallows his vomit back in. Those were not the caring eyes of a maternal figure or the slender hands caressing his cheeks. America needed to accept the fact that England stopped loving him. Alfred could hear his heart shattering. His muscles were clenched in fear and he was vividly shaking. The memories were grasping at him; those claws and nails pulled him back into the daze.

* * *

It was a cool September, the air was frozen but inside the office it was quaint and warm. The sounds of rustling branches and creaking roof tiles did not disturb the two nations inside the Hotel Lounge. America was busy shuffling important files into his cabinet. England gazed non-chantlontly at him. He was reading the news and made himself comfortable on America's stained couch. The meeting was long winding and he felt that he deserved a rest. The printed words smudged into oblivion as he felt his eyes flutter into sleep. The morning sunlight sunk into America's office; it stained the walls and floor a vibrant orange hue. The clatter of outside nations retiring from the World Conference stirred England awake.

America was humming something- or was chanting something. England wasn't too sure, it was annoying nonetheless. He was now splayed into his desk; his face nonsensically close to the papers and his fingers were painted with ink. England rose from his rest and peered towards America. 

As always, his hair was of pure California gold and his skin was tan from the Florida beaches. Lately, his scent smelled distinct-sweater like of Oregan forests and blazing coal. But what was even sweeter was America’s gleam towards him. His eyes melted into pure pots of the sweetest honey.

"I hope you slept well. I got you tea but I think it's cold now." America addressed England sheepishly and brushed his wattled hair backward. America brought a tea cup to him and England smiled at the tea and rose to drink some. It was putrid. He scrunched his nose in distaste and sputtered out:

"Thank you, but you're not made for making tea I suppose."

"No, I was made for making wars." England slightly flinched like a rabbit hearing a gunshot. He stiffened and sighed. He held a hand to his face, what was the matter with him? Wasn't he the one who made America this way?

"But," America paused reading and swirled his chair to face England. He hopped off the chair in spectacular fashion and walked across England and grinned up at him. England stared straight ahead into those cerulean eyes and he waited.

"Do you know what we were made for?” England shook his head, America smiled and interlooped their calloused hands together.

"You and me, we were made for each other-it's as if I was..." Alfred stopped and tried to think of an analogy powerful to move the literature incarnate nation.

England rose his eyebrows in spectacular fashion and pouted. His fingers padded the blanket on top of him and raised his eyebrows in suspicion. America either didn't notice the looks or did but didn't care.

"It's you and I, and I suppose so" Alfred grinned, that's the closest to a "Yes, I agree with you" that he would ever get from England. America hummed cheerfully and skipped closer to his paramour. He laid his arms on the head of the couch above England and caressed his lovers cheeks.

"You're like my mother," before England would squawk out in indignation, Alfred pressed his finger on England's rose lips. He grinned up at him and winked. He pulled their faces closer together. He could feel England's heart beating; he brought their foreheads together and whispered:

"Not in the I'm making fun of your feminine tendencies type of way, but it's like I was born for you."

England crossed his arms and looked down on the cedar floor. He was silent. Alfred could see his pale face flush with a delicate pink hue. Alfred was still beaming up at him and slowly replaced his fingers with his lips and kissed his flowery lips. Arthur gasped out when they parted. A slight speckle of spit followed between their mouths. England blushed and brushed him away. He looked off to the side at the large white windows. America's eyes were still focused on England.

"Nations aren't born..." Arthur looked off into the distance and he could almost imagine his homeland. Him at home and cradling an infant America in his arms. The boy was already older and stronger than his peers when only a day passed. He was never going to be human. Just like him, they would be cursed to be nations. His eyebrows scrunched together contemplating. America gazed over to England's hand and held it. England didn't react.

Alfred nodded in understanding and finished Arthur's line of thought:

"They're  _ made _ ."

* * *

It was just another day, another 24 hours but to a nation it felt insignificant. Time stretches differently around nations. Time itself is puzzled by the nations and it can only wrap itself around them. England couldn't remember the difference between day and a century it seemed like. One day there were blood and wars but now it's all diplomacy and suits. Not that he minded the suits but he missed the adrenaline and his heart pumping with the sound of war. 

England cradled the Picture of Dorian Gray into his hands; it was one of the first prints and Oscar Wilde himself gifted it to him. A gesture of good faith he was sure. England mused to himself ‘they got along great and he often missed the man’. They both had an understanding with each other; they were both in love with prats named Alfred.

"I would die for you, you know."

England stopped reading Oscar Wilde and looked up at America laying down in front of him at the coffee table. His arms off to the side looking at the yellow walls. The evening sunlight draped over their bodies and the soft outside lights were waning. England shuffled his legs and brushed his hair back. England sputtered out a reply and craned his head to look at America closer. His hair got a bit darker.

"Yes, I know."

"Good, just wanted you to know that's all." America grinned cheekily up at him and caressed his arm closer together. He was tracing circles over England's fair skin. His fingers went up and down and up and down his arms; it was painted in a blossoming pink. Did he even realize that his love marks would be so red? 

England remembered their past nights activities and shuddered, he looked back at his book:

The picture of Dorian Gray smiled back at him. 

England dropped it to the floor. 

America turned his head to the side and peered at him like a toddler. It unnerved him. He looked unusual - he didn't look real. England slowly let his arms drape over the floor. He felt the rough papers and brought it back on the couch. Then, suddenly, America crossed over to him and locked him tightly in a crude embrace.

All England could see was blue; America's face was merely a few inches between his own and he gasped out. When could he be that fast? Normally nations wouldn't be that fast unless...

America hooked their hands together and stared at England with longing. England looked in the other direction, and tried to push America off of him.

"How could I forget?" America tried his best not to notice the flinch when he said that.

"I think I was supposed to fall in love with you..." America smiled, patting his papers on his desk. England furrowed his eyebrows, the way he said it sounded like true absolution. As if everything he said was destined to be real. England was reminded of fairy tales when he got unnerved. His land was born out of them and he distinctly remembers girls in red hoods.

_ What a deep voice you have, _

America's eyes remain unblinking. England coughed and redirected his gaze at the tapestry. It was dark wood, the edges were slightly torn and frayed at the sides. Must be cedarwood. England looked back at America’s eyes. He still hasn’t blinked.

“...And I, with you.”

_ Better to say i love you with _

America nodded his head as if England chose the correct answer and resumed working. England sighed out in relief and started plucking the red from the couch.

* * *

Somehow, America became so engrossed in his work nowadays, normally it was the other way around. America would folly around England while he worked himself to the bone. Now England was knitting a new scarf for Charlotte the new baby princess. It was getting cold nowadays and the little princess had a bit of the sniffles. He had a duty to fulfill as the young princess' nation. Plus, he had a soft spot for the princesses and the queens. America was still scrutinizing the mess on the blackboard he drew on. England craned his head to see several mathematical equations and puzzling code words that made no sense. He felt a sensation; that this was something important.

He started to get up and tried to see the blackboard closer. America quickly got up and stopped him. He was looking at him in impatience. He was waiting for an answer. England shuffled on his feet and glanced back at the baby pink scarf.

“We were meant to become lovers.” America announced, as if it was divine destiny. It was his Manifest Destiny.

"Why do you think so?" England treaded the dark waters and waited. America shuffled his papers and placed them neatly into the cabinets. He smirked up at him and wolfishly smiled at him.

_ What big teeth you have, _

America's mouth eerily stretched out wide and pointed to his proud gaze to the humongous blackboard. He led England to the board closer and didn't forget to wrap a strong arm on his shoulder. He was not letting go.

_ Better to mark you with. _

"It's too improbable otherwise." America gestured his arms towards the towering blackboard. England walked steadily towards it; he paused to take a breath and felt the harsh lines of chalk. Now that he was closer, he could see equations and his name and America's name and chemical components and mentions of biological principles like serotonin and dopamine. England could almost laugh; it was like the insane scientist equivalent of a school girl manically writing her crush's name and hers with a heart inside.

America gazed at him lovingly, England shuddered. His name was traced and retraced as if he was erasing it and rewriting it again.

"You're applying mathematics to...love?" America scrawled more nonsensical words and jumped in front of England. England was startled, he almost shrieked. Was America's eyes always this dark? Those were not the color of the sky that he fell in love with. These eyes seemed muted as if their original colors had disappeared into the fumes.

_ What big eyes you have, _

"Yes, there wouldn't otherwise be a good enough explanation."

_ Better to see you with. _

England nodded and puffed out the air. Theoretical mathematics wasn't to his liking but physical sciences he enjoyed like the knots of ships and he was the one who started the Golden Age of Science, of course. But somehow amongst all these numbers and equations he came to a startling realization; he couldn't understand any of it at all.

* * *

"If you ever stop looking at me like that," America mused from England's chest. England was sitting next to him on the couch, their feet were touching. It was morning and the last night's event left them snug and satiated. Smooth jazz poured through the warm bedroom and England pulled the covers a little closer to his body.

"Like what?" England was amused ‘how did he look at him?’ Englan tussled a strand of golden hair from America.

"Like you would kill for me." England was silent after that. He stopped twiddling America's hair.

"I might just kill you,you know?" he said casually as he glanced up and gazed into England's eyes. He brushed England's locks out of his eyes and whispered fondly. America moved closer to England and carefully locked him in his arms. England looked up into those endless cerulean eyes. They kept going on forever and ever.

"I want you to always look at me like that, otherwise..." America turned his face away; he pulled the covers away in one haste. He scanned England's lithe figure and softly murmured. His spiraling eyes studied the delicate lithe legs and brought them closer to himself.

"Otherwise what?" England braced for the words and didn't notice his quilt dropping down into the floor. America kept on kissing his knees and thighs, England shuddered at his expression.

"Otherwise it would..." England didn't need to be told. The room felt infinitely smaller; the walls felt as though they were caving in. England swore that he could hear ghosts wailing. Above him the chandelier moved slightly in dismay. England scorched his soap like carved hands and closed himself in his arms. America didn't say anything and gently dropped himself on England; fully embracing their skin to skin contact. England closed his eyes; he could already hear the word  _ hurt  _ linger in the permeating air.

America enclosed himself in England's being, his favorite place since childhood. England gasped out when America pushed himself in. America groaned out strongly, he crawled up to England's long lean legs and reached them over his broad shoulders. America caressed and slid his hands up and down his slim legs. No matter how many times England denies it, he really does have feminine legs. No hair in sight either; it felt marvelous to brush his hands down his legs feeling such soft and smooth legs.

England cried out as his sensitive spot was hit; he hid his face in his face and cried to muffle his cries. America pried his hands off his beautiful face and encouraged him to moan out loud.

"Git, you... ah should have used lube." England enunciated as America chuckled as he switched positions and carried him on to their desk and started fucking him on the desk.

"There's some already inside you, don't worry."

England moaned out and clawed America's back in retaliation. Fucking cheeky brat.

"I could break this desk you know? I bet you would like that, pervert."

England squirmed and shuddered at the accusation. It was true.

When America came, he bucked his hips forward, burying his seeds into England. England gasped out when he saw it. Those love marks on his shoulders, thighs and the very visible one on his neck. He crossed his arms together and held the marks on his shoulders.

America cleaned himself and England off gently and walked over to the bathroom. England was in shock over a revelation. He walked over to the mirror and inspected his body. Long lines of red, white and blue were edged into his skin. England could faintly see the 20 proud stripes along his chest and legs. The stripes were running in a perfect line down to his toes. England gasped when he saw perfect stars written on his shoulders and neck.

He softly caressed it, it wasn't a love mark, it was a warning. This wasn't America; England cradled himself and held his knees together on the bedside. How could he not notice?

England murmured ‘recent world events and economic crises, anything that would explain America'. What could have triggered this? England crawled off the bed, his legs in a sting as he walked towards his laptop. He limped to the table and tried to search for American news. England didn't know how long he searched for. Until then he saw it: "The United States are advancing military bases in...". England stopped reading and paused to take a breath, he didn't need to see any more.

England sighed and guarded his face with the table. Why did no one tell him what he was going through? England laughed, of course he was changing, who could have missed it? all of the signs were there.

England remembered it; the lingering stares, the tight embraces and the swirling blue eyes; they were never icy blue. It reminded England too much of the ocean; the unpredictable waves crashing and strangling his people. Those eyes were not the eyes of the sky; it was the color of falling into the abyss. America was not America; not the one he loved. His old America died a long time ago.

America was going through it; the Metamorphosis. 

England remembered all the signs and clues and cried out. The obsessive paranoid need for their bond to be published. Their alliance to each other perfect, yet England was bewitched for so long:

_ America held up England's wrists in his hands. They're so tiny and weak; he could break them so easily with a slight push and they would crackle and crack. Crackle and crack like the fires of Washington so burning red like molten lava. America gazed down at England. _

_ "Promise yourself to me, and I to you." _

_ England stared at him dully. He never did say I love you back to him. Never. But, this would be enough, it would be more than enough, emotions are too humane. We are nations, we have something stronger than emotions. We have immortality. _

_ "I promise." _

His government was the reason for it, probably to have him stronger, and as a side effect made him paranoid, possessive and jealous. Yet somehow this America still loves him. 

England could almost coo and cry at the thought of it; it's an entirely new identity yet he still loves him. A completely new personality engineered to fight off economic crisis and civilian protests. However, he could still access old America's memories and know that he loved and still loves England. It's a permanent part of his machinery. It can't be turned off. No matter how many times the government or his people can try restarting to fix the bug; it can't be shut off. It's part of who he is.

England started to cry at the old America and the new America. They both still loved him in their own way.

* * *

"Are you sure that this is wise? Mr. England?"

England nodded and allowed his men to insert and probe around his brain. This wasn't the first or last time he had been upgraded in a sense. He needed to forget Ameri- no England winched when an electric shock bolted through him. He is doing this for his people and only his people. That is his purpose as their nation and and right now he was not what his people needed therefore  _ this  _ had to be done.

"Any repercussions?" The serviceman must have been new. Everyone knows what this process costs; every time the nation's people are threatened; a new implantation is initiated. The initiation is in question:  _ death _ . Whether England consented to it didn't really matter or to any other nations really. This is what they were born, England swallowed a breath he was holding, or  _ made _ to do.

At the final set of electric shocks; a series of roses bloomed from the devices decorating the dark cold machine with spiraling roses of red and pink. The engineers jumped back in surprise at the floral explosion. Some gathered around him in curiosity and the head engineer's booming voice reverberated throughout the Queen's laboratory.

**"Loss of memory and a detachment to past emotional connections among others."** explained the engineer, the servicemen nodded and continued to dismantle England’s memories.

England's thoughts were invaded by memories of America, his lover. Why was it that whenever he dies he thinks of him? His sandy blond hair and his obnoxious laugh and the stomach churning smile? 

**"Good, nothing useful then." the prime minister replied, caressing a rose flower.**

Roses continued to spill into the floor blooming the cellar floor with a garden of flowers. England remained motionless and the servicemen ignored him altogether.

* * *

"What happened to Canada?"

"He died," when little America's face grimaced, England hurriedly hugged the younger nation. Albeit a little awkwardly he held him and calmed down the sniffles.

"Don't worry, he will be back and a bit better."

"How so?" America wiped off his tears and stared at his caregiver.

"Perhaps, he will now be nicer to you."

America scrunched his face, like that would happen; his brother Canada hated him with a passion. Ever since he met him, Canada was out to get him. America assumed it was because he stole him from England. But who cares, England loves America more than Canada. And if he came back nicer wasn't that better for everyone?

England, seeing the confusion on the little boy's face, planted him on the soft grass under the gentle English oak and settled himself beside him. He could recall the same conversation happening with France when his older brother Scott fell into a plunging waterfall and came back sweeter. It disturbed him to no end. Scott's taunts and jeers have changed to teases and compliments and Frances explanation didn't help much. 

"You see,

When a nation dies, their body inhibits their memories.

Therefore new and stronger alliances can be made with enemies; burying the physical hatchet so to speak. This way, nations could lose their grudges. Memories of betrayal thwart new alliances and new money. Through death we can be birthed again. It's called The Metamorphosis but other nations call it something else in their native tongue"

America nodded his head in understanding, so his brother wouldn't remember him?; somehow despite his teases and taunts he doesn't want that. His eyes burst into tears and he cried out. ‘If only I was a better brother then this wouldn't have to happen’. England hushed his cries and brought him closer to his chest and hugged the young nation. He hummed a sweet lullaby and cradled the nation to his arms and swayed him side to side.

"What about their memories?" America cried out in England's chest. England looked down at the rosy cheeks and tear stained face, he pouted and kissed the tears away. This earned a chuckle and soon he was laughing. England chuckled and hummed in thought at the question.

"Well, they would be gone, for the Metamorphosis to work."

"Have you ever died?" America asked suddenly, his tiny hands caressed England's clothed chest. He opened the fabric and saw scars. It was warred and fleshy,but he still frowned. They looked old and painful. America felt a bile of angry rise in him, he doesn't want to see England in pain ever again; a deep insidious feeling rose inside him. He plans to hurt whoever hurt England.

America's sudden question threw England in a loop and he seemed flustered, his face bloomed a pure red. America smiled; he wants to see England in that healthy glow again.

"Plenty, too many to count." England admitted, America frowned and his face was flush with tears once again, England tutted and held him once again. England rocked the young nation into his arms and calmed him down.

"It's been a long time, I honestly don't remember it." he swayed his body side to side hoping to settle the nation into a nap.

"Will you forget me then?" England looked back at America and all he saw was a cherub face in pure grief. His heart thudded in pain and he felt bitter remorse clog his throat. He doesn't want to see that face again.

"Never, I promise." England wrapped his pinkie around the little pinkie and swore to never forget the nation on his chest.

America shook his head, he doesn't like promises anymore. England always promised to come back but he never does. He wants something stronger. Something like a pledge!

America perked up and grabbed a handful of England's white shirt and pulled him closer.

Just like from his fairy tale books the prince always pledged to the princess to love her forever! Surely America could do the same for England.

"Pledge it to me, you won't ever forget me!" America barked out, he stood on top of the boulder and brandished his hands out to England. England dazed in surprise, England shook his head and smirked, America was always so stubborn wasn't he?

"Okay, I pledge it." America's blue eyes shone like the sky and England swore that he couldn't tell the difference between his eyes and the crystal skies.

**"Sir, why is it that Mr.England is crying?"**

**"That's normal. His memories are currently being deleted. It always happens"**

* * *

"I'm leaving you."

England did not even look at him.

"Why do you always leave?” America cried out. England didn't pay him any attention and continued scanning around the room. He was picking apart their home, searching for anything of interest to take back. “We just got back together.” America grabbed England's arms and pleaded with him. England discerned eyes paused to stare at him and pushed him off.

"You always break my heart." America broke down as England continued packing away his stuff. There's their honeymoon picture in Florida, their snow globe from Disney-world, and a scrap of metal; their wedding rings. England didn't pay those any mind and reached for a book; America stopped him and grabbed the books back. America shook his head, England raised his eyebrows but rose his shoulders and walked away into the kitchen. Probably looking for his kettle and tea. America opened and unwrapped the worn out book. Inside it were their vows. Their pledges to each other; their agreement to discern their nationhood and love as humans.

This New England would not get this. This was between him and the England that loved him.

America watched in agony, England looked apprehensively at the stuff with no recollection. He picked up something of interest (their matching tea and coffee cups) and threw it away. As if he grabbed America's heart and placed it away again. The king of losing things; always misplacing things because he doesn't  _ care _ .

"Why can't you just stay for once." America dropped to the floor. He doesn't want to cry. Is this what England felt like when he gained independence? The sucking of love and hope out of you?

"Does being with me disgust you that much?"

England didn't say a word. He moved around there-no his apartment and he stopped. America cried out in relief, he was not going away right? He was just tired and stressed from work and they could fix this- they always did. 

America held England's arms and pulled him close. He smelled roses in full bloom and soft rain; he always smelled like love. But- the rain stopped and the scents of withered roses and mud were putrid in his nose. America stepped back as England turned to him in disgust.

"The England you loved is gone... I want my stuff back tomorrow."

That was a command.This was not England. England promised to use Arthur when they were together; he could break their promise, but never their pledge.

England never looked at him with those eyes; It was as if an imposter was in his England's body. The real England never made demands like that; only polite suggestions. With a final glance he looked at him, tipped his head and walked out. America crumpled to the floor and held himself together as he sobbed. Reminiscent of the young colonial boy he was waiting for England to come back, but this time he knows he won't.

America cradled his body together and rounded himself into a ball. He pulled a picture out of  Layla and Majnun and imagined:

"I don't think I will love someone again, if it's not you" America muses from their Oregon country house. America hummed as he started raking the fallen autumn leaves. The colors sparkled and gleamed in the evening chill; America looked back crestfallen none of them ever looked good as England's garden. England was out back in his little garden. The summer birds danced above him, serenading his garden with musical growth. England started pulling those pesky weeds and arranged his roses with content.

"Are you sure?" England knew that nations see others as self-interests at best; they're too fickle otherwise. Seasons change, tides turn and new alliances purge, they can never be permanent. Impermanence is both a curse and a blessing for them. Besides, America is still seen by many as a young nation. Who knows where his young heart will lead him?

"I will." America declared, looking at him. England nods his head and clenches his knuckles white and he knows that it's not a promise- it's a pledge.

America stopped mowing their eternal garden and ran up to him. Their house was an old yet picturesque cottage with a spiraling garden and farm in the back. Perfect for the two of them. America smiled gazing at the warm red roof shining over them and the white walls the two of them painted in one spring day. England looked up at him and brushed sweat away from his forehead.

America sat next to him and kissed his forehead. England grumbled but America could see the slight tingles he gets when he gets unexpectedly kissed.

"Here, America ripped off a page of  Layla and Majnun and started writing. England peered over in curiosity. What was he writing?

"Sign this."

"I won't read it until my lawyer sees it."

"Relax, it's just a marriage certificate " England rose his eyebrows at this but tutted absentmindedly. America grinned and handed him a pen and England held it in his worn out hands.

England remembered similar events happening with France and a war, but this time their marriage certificate was written on a scrap piece of paper with a broken pen. England nodded and noticed the childish spelling of Alfred F. Jones and signed him with a particular Arthur Kirkland.

* * *

"Is this okay? Running away to God knows where? We can't change who we are."

"Then, we can just pretend. Now, when you are with me, I'm Alfred F. Jones and you are Arthur Kirkland, the man who fell in love with Alfred."

England grinned and huffed out a laugh, "I think dear Alfred fell in love with Arthur first, perhaps when they first met?" America grinned ear to ear and laughed out obnoxiously.

"Love at first? Hmm, what a romantic Arthur is."

"Yes, he is and always has been, but," England pouted and pulled America's face closer to him and whispered delicately.

"Only for Alfred."

A simple kiss was America- no Alfred's answer.

Alfred smiled wildly and kissed Arthur intensely with passion and burning desire for more.

* * *

America doesn't know how long he lied on the cold floor. He looked at the empty apartment and sighed back into the ground. He doesn't love him again. Why does this always happen?

America picks up armfuls of roses and lays them down and down from their shared bed to the rose gardens and at the exit. He caressed the pure rose and imagines the rose as England. His face would bloom into a beautiful rose hue and they both have thorns but it served to protect him. England would gruff at his poor attempt at a metaphor. But, it was true.

England's soft pat pat on his roses warmed America. His feet were still as gentle and graceful as when he first met him. It felt as though the roses bloomed and cheered when their mother pressed his feet into them. Crushing them with his willow body; they cried in relief back home with their mother.

England, the rose's land, walked away from America. He walked softly and lightly on the red roses then yellow blue and white. And in every step he took he never looked back once. America held his head high; England never liked it when he cried. He was a big boy now a grown nation; the United States of America for God's sake. He could- no he can handle this. Besides, this wasn't the first time England left. He always leaves. But he always comes back too. This thought; this shimmer of hope left America's heart a touch warmer.

He braced himself for the urges: the pain of seeing his back. He was leaving and retreating, but America would not let a single tear fall, even if it kills him. He was sure that England would notice a tear stained flower. He was always observant. That's why and among hundred other reasons why he adored him.

However, when you leave and can't see me anymore. America let his resolve crumble down; the facade went, his tears fell down like a river. He won't stop shedding tears until he comes back home.

"I would rather die than you leave me though."

" _ When you feel disgusted looking at me _

_ And if you feel like leaving me _

_ I will let you go without whining a word _

_ I will go to Yongbyon's Yaksan (Mountain) _

_ I will bring an armful of azaleas _

_ I will lay the azalea flowers on the path you'd take _

_ Softly, lightly, _

_ take one step after another on the fresh flowers _

_ as you're going away _

_ You may go away if you feel disgusted looking at me _

_ I will not let a single tear drop fall _

_ I'd rather die if you leave me, though" _

**Author's Note:**

> The poem at the end is called 'Jindallae Kkot' (Azalea flowers) and after reading it and the meaning, I wanted to write a fanfic inspired by it but with a usuk twist!


End file.
